Braving the Storm
by Corelli Sonatas
Summary: Matthew, Mary, and George must endure after the death of a beloved family member. Winter 1922.
1. Prologue

_Crash!_ A shriek and a groan damage his eardrums. He wonders why he is here, but as soon as the noise diminishes he starts to run.

Toward that _room,_ because he fears the worst.

_Oh, what if I hadn't been here?_ he begins to wonder, though his thoughts subside when a horrid moaning creeps into his ears. "Oh, God, no!" shouts he, hurrying across the spiky ground. He tries not to lose all composure quite yet, but nothing can overpower his mind's aching question:

_Do I need to call the doctor?_

As soon as he nears the bedroom's entrance - his heart pounding so passionately that it produces the horrible melody-line for the moment - he sees that the door is completely open. _I must enter through the doorway, no matter how hard it may be._

He barely remembers his fright once the injured person is in sight.

"Mother!" his sore throat produces: that word known to all from a very young age, the one word that is supposed to resonate with assurance that everything will be all right.

She cannot move. He notices this in panic, whereupon his body rushes to her side, sinking to the painfully sharp floor. "Mother, I'm calling Dr. Clarkson. Where does it hurt?"

She looks at him blankly. All colour has vanished from her usually vivid face. She is but a ghost to him, and he cries. He cries.

"Mother, can you hear me?" Now the young man concludes that his mother is without vision - or, perhaps, without hearing or speaking or a number of things. _Damn!_ he bellows internally. What his next action is, he cannot know.

All seems to be frozen in that chilly, bright room. Too bright, in fact: his eyes burn from the glare that the winter sun so proudly emanates through the window.

"Mother," he whispers. She moves not an inch; her face is as pallid as the snow that has commenced to fall outside. He knows she is as good as gone, but his heart scolds this consensus. "No, Mother, please no. I can't -" Choking on his own words is not the young man's ideality; he wants to call this woman's dear name twice, thrice more. He thirsts to have another year with her - or two more years, or as many as he can acquire with the precious woman who'd brought him into the world.

A world in which his true love lived. A world with a promise - with an earldom - waiting for him.

"How can I continue, Mother?" He understands the nature of her dying senses, but his words are purely for himself to ponder on his life - and her death. "I need you," he whispers. Hating the fact that he'd whispered, the man exclaims loudly, "I need you!"

Tears cloud his vision, and for a moment he thinks _he's_ the dying one. _Perhaps I am,_ he muses, _because there is no life without my mother. Even while my wife walks the earth._

He remembers the death of his father: a cluster of excerpts from that wretched day, on which the older man's own colleagues labored to save him. He'd had the fortune to lie in a hospital bed.

_Mother does not deserve any less,_ thinks Matthew. A sudden burst of energy - the kind that derives from an intense feeling of motivation to make things right - surges through the man. He lifts his mother up from the ground, not looking at the blood that trails behind them across the floor.

When he does notice, however, he almost drops her; "Oh, God," pleads he, holding the helpless woman up by the strength of his inner sanity.

Because he has gone insane.

Matthew sets her down on the nearby bed before examining her. She is wet with the blood that flows down the back of her neck. _How did I not notice it before?_ wonders the woman's son aimlessly.

She is hardly breathing, and yet Matthew believes the doctor will be her saviour. "Mother, I'm calling for Clarkson. I will be right back..." Those last words hammer him hard; he realises that she very well could be gone by the time he returns. So he aborts his plan, and remains by the dying woman's side.

Her wound is large, and her life is practically over. Matthew cannot think properly, cannot search the room to find the source of her injury. Instead, he waits with her.

For the doctor that will never come.

One minute more finishes the life of Isobel Crawley. Matthew weeps. He gently raises the hands of his darling mother up to his lips, merely wanting to feel her touch. But her hands are cold already, and she is nothing but a corpse on a merciless winter morning...

_"Oh, my darling Mary... Mother is dead."_


	2. One

Mary had departed the abbey after composing herself and expressing Matthew's news to her parents. An awe-struck Cora had resolved to stay with George, who hadn't a nanny but his own mother. Robert and Edith had rushed to the front-door in utter silence. "I don't know when we'll be back, Carson," whispered the Earl to the butler. Carson nodded quietly and replied, "We will all be here when you return, milord."

...

"Do come in," uttered Isobel's housekeeper. Mary was first to step through the doorframe and into the lifeless house's entryway. It disturbed her as she beheld the happy paintings on the shadowy walls; it felt as if the house had endured years without Isobel, and yet only a half-hour had transpired without the woman.

Robert and Edith followed Mary, too stunned to speak. None of them could process the brevity of Isobel's suffering and death; what was more, the woman had hardly passed sixty years of age.

Following Matthew's instructions from the phone-call, Mary led her father and sister upstairs. Her composure, she knew, had to prevail: _God knows how much Matthew will need to lean on my strength,_ mused she.

As they approached the deceased woman's bedroom-door, Robert caught Mary's attention. "You go in first. He will want to be alone with her and you."

Edith nodded to her sister, prompting Mary into the soundless room. Mary pursed her lips; a thousand conflicting emotions channeled through her disorderly mind. _This has all happened too quickly,_ she told herself over and again. With simultaneous reluctance, sadness, and longing to comfort her heartbroken husband - she entered the room.

Isobel's body rested on the royal-purple bedcovers. At first Mary wondered whether her husband had been mistaken about the woman's condition: _Isobel looks so well! How can she be gone from us?_

But the nearer Mary drew toward Isobel and Matthew - whose back faced the room's entrance - the more lifeless Isobel Crawley looked. And this caused Mary to gasp in recognition of reality; whereupon Matthew turned, torn and tarnished by the morning's series of events.

For a moment neither of them moved. Every particle in the air seemed to concur with the stillness in the piercingly bright bedroom.

Then Matthew broke. His limbs struggled to rise from the ground; and when he stared up at his wife with deep hopelessness, she came to him. Mary inhaled heavily as she brought her husband away from the floor. "Oh, my darling," she breathed. Matthew sobbed in their embrace.

All he temporarily needed was her presence. In unfathomable agony did Mary rub her hands down the man's back. She'd never felt him in this way; they were so close that their lips could have touched - but for now the two of them held one another, Mary bravely maintaining them. Suddenly Matthew parted from her, his eyes tired and reddened by his tears. "Is George here?" asked he, managing to look to his left - where his beautiful mother lay - and turning quickly back to his wife.

Mary was taken off-guard by the interrogative. "No... No, I did not... Would you like me to -"

"I want George here," Matthew interrupted rather decidedly. He wiped his forehead to eliminate the cold sweat that had thus far accumulated. "I want him to...to say good-bye to Mother." His voice had faltered at the end of his words. Mary clasped his hand and brought it against his cheek. She did not answer him immediately, but once she'd considered his request, she managed with a nod,

"I'll have Papa bring him."

"Thank you," exhaled the young man; Mary could tell that he was dying to impart a grin, but she gazed into his eyes knowingly and assured him, "It's all right to be sad. Matthew, she was a kind, loving mother to you...and a wonderful mother-in-law to me..."

Everything was too new, too fresh: Mary closed her eyes and waited for the heavy tears to disappear. _I cannot be weak in Matthew's sight,_ she pressed herself. Opening her optics again, however, only made her more inclined to cry. Her darling husband held trembling lips together, looking to her so fragile that it pained her. "Matthew," whispered Mary, "I am so sorry."

He wept in her arms once more, concerning himself nevertheless about Mary. _I cannot be too out-of-control with this,_ he admonished himself. _I mustn't -_

Robert and Edith entered slowly through the doorframe. They were so silent that Matthew almost felt ready to shout at them in nonsensical anger. But Mary withdrew from her husband and approached her father. "Papa, Matthew wants..." She'd almost forgotten; her father had only just spotted Isobel on the bed. "God have mercy," he whispered. _It's too late for that,_ thought Mary negatively. But she squeezed Edith's hand lovingly and urged her sister farther into the room.

"My dear chap," began the Earl in his solemnest tone of voice, "I cannot...cannot find the words..." He donned the very same countenance that had appeared on the eve of Sybil's death, and to both Edith and Mary this brought a new intensity to the sorrow of the moment.

Robert stood at the side of the bed and reached down to touch Isobel's lifeless hand. "My dear cousin..." He stopped to hold a hand to his trembling lips before continuing. "You were taken too soon. I cannot express how much you meant to my family... To Cora, to Mary..." A tear had fallen from the man's face, hitting Isobel's ocean-blue attire.

Robert reverted his gaze to Mary. "Have you called the doctor? He will know how to proceed...from here."

Matthew was silent. His mother was surely to be taken away from him by the evening, and yet his countenance remained opaque. Mary knew, of course, that her husband was not unfeeling, because he'd spoken so surely about having George there. _Our son obviously means a great deal of comfort to Matthew,_ she pondered. Whereupon she finished her previous declaration to her father:

"Can you bring George back with you? Matthew wants the baby to be here." Robert nodded, unwilling to argue even while he thought it improper to have a five month-old child to behold the truthfully disturbing sight of a dead woman. _It is his grandmama though,_ he reminded himself sternly. _Matthew has the right to allow his boy the chance to bid his grandmother one last good-bye._

_How unbelievable a thought,_ he realised.


	3. Two

Dr. Richard Clarkson was the only one of his kind at Downton; and, whilst Mary had dreaded the prospect of the doctor coming to examine Isobel and figure out the means of her injury, it was the only choice the Crawley family had. He arrived promptly at ten o'clock, whether he'd wanted to face the truth about his dear colleague or not.

Robert and Edith were absent now from Crawley House; they'd gone to collect George and a rather anxious Cora, who'd thought her part in the day's proceeds shameful. Her relation to the deceased woman had exceeded that which the bonds of marriage could bring about, and she'd regarded the late mother of her son-in-law with ardent love.

Clarkson had forced himself into the dismal yet bright room; the sun was now at a more agreeable angle in relation to the house, yielding the room a bit cooler than before. The simultaneous guest and doctor stared at the violet-coloured bedcovers from his position under the doorframe. He shook his head in disbelief - slightly did he do this - but uttered not a word.

Mary - who had been kneeling next to her husband along the farthest side of the bed - got up to greet the doctor. Richard Clarkson held his hand out. "Please. I will come in when I am ready."

His tone had been blunt, and yet Mary had no objections to it. _He is entitled to a great magnitude of grief, _thought she, recalling the man's past expressions of regard for Isobel. "Of course, Dr. Clarkson," she whispered in response. The doctor nodded and stepped in on a whim. He regretted this immediately.

Meanwhile Matthew's eyes were secured on his mother's face. So pale was she, and so empty! _Mother is surely gone: she took her happy spirits with her!_ Isobel's son let oxygen into his lungs, gradually allowing his diaphragm and lungs to work their ways. Even the air that the young man drew into his body reeked of death and cold; and Matthew believed his musing that not a single thing was right with the world, or would ever be again.

He thought this until Dr. Clarkson was standing above the body of Isobel Crawley. Shaking his head, he murmured, "You would be in the village on a pleasant day like this..."

Mary arose from her uncomfortable position on the scratchy, carpet floor. Her intentions for doing so altered, however, when the doctor lowered his body onto the edge of the cheery-purple bedspread. "Isobel, it's Richard Clarkson. The nurses are grieving... They will surely miss your...oh," sighed Clarkson, shutting his eyes to the present reality for a moment.

Mary held her breath as the doctor acted thus; she felt it was his time to let his tears fall - and she knew he possessed them - but her lungs released all tension when Clarkson sat up straighter. "I miss you even now...your smile, your..." He cleared his throat in effort to boost his self-confidence; but the doctor could not refrain from realising that this encounter was unlike any other he'd experienced with his deceased patients. _She was always more than a colleague; she was a friend, a mother, and a mentor to me - all at once,_ reflected he.

It was Matthew's cue to rise from his kneeling-position and to discuss matters with the doctor. "Clarkson, the back of her neck was all damaged. I do not know how it happened." This recollection put young Matthew on the verge of tears; was he truly alive without his mother, so _soon?_

The doctor leant back down to examine the body. He tentatively touched the back of her neck, raising her head with his right hand. "Is there anything in this room that could have...?" Richard was too heartbroken to continue.

Matthew shook his head in uncertainty, unspeaking. Mary confirmed, "We haven't discovered anything in the room...anything that could have fallen on her."

Clarkson took the initiative to begin a room-wide search. His movements were reverent, so as to respect the permanently-resting body of the woman he'd unashamedly admired. From dresser to looking-glass, the doctor sought any sort of object that had been the dear woman's undoing. _I cannot concentrate,_ realised he after a minute of failed searching. _Isobel's life was taken by something in this room, and yet I cannot burn it because I have not found it!_ He cursed under his breath - unthinking as he did so - but neither Mary nor Matthew noticed. Suddenly he held his face in his hands and whispered unclearly, "I am so sorry... So, so sorry, my dear..."

A baby's whimper from outside the room distracted the three of them. Of course, this hit a despairing Matthew like lightning. "George," exclaimed he. Turning to his wife, he requested, "Bring the baby here."

Mary did her best not to sound irritated by Matthew's order. "I'm sure he's on his way..." Indeed, George did appear in mere seconds, carried by the Countess of Grantham. She broke into tears as soon as her eyes locked upon Isobel's body, and Mary made sure to retrieve her son from Cora before her mother had erupted completely. Robert entered shortly afterward.

"Matthew," Cora uttered, drawing nearer toward her son-in-law with renewed pain in her countenance. Matthew knew she'd been crying before she'd arrived at the house. "Cora," he responded, able now to manage small words or phrases without faltering. They embraced gently at first, holding one another's comfort into account. But when Cora heard him sniffling away his urge to weep, she squeezed him lovingly and whispered, "It's all too soon, I know... I know..."

George was growing restless in his mother's arms; he did not seem to understand the fulness of the loss that had occurred in his family, and so giggled whilst he played with his mother's hair. Mary had left it down since her husband's call had been early that morning; but George's mannerisms did not bother her. "Matthew," she called. He disengaged from Cora's embrace. "Your son," prompted Mary, this time compiling the strength to walk across the floor to her husband.

He lifted the cheery baby into his tired arms, forgetting not to kiss the child's forehead as he settled little George into his hold. "My little chap... Your grandmama..."

Unable to finish his sentence, Matthew carried George over to the bed. Robert still felt uneasy about the child's presence among his deceased grandmother, but Matthew was in charge. _I must not forget that,_ reminded the Earl to himself.

He soon forgot.

George had been lowered just enough to be able to touch Isobel's face. Matthew trembled whilst maintaining his son's hovering position over the body, but he nevertheless announced, "Time to say good-bye to Grandmama."

Cora wept uncontrollably; Dr. Clarkson offered to take her into the hallway, but then the distastefully noiseless room earned a rare frequency:

George giggled, running his fingers lightly across his deceased grandmother's thin, dry hair. Mary felt uncomfortable upon hearing and watching her son; she looked at Matthew from her position but did not stir. Robert had begun to feel uneasy as well, and so had Cora and Richard. But Matthew allowed his son the opportunity to act as he pleased.

By the time George had picked up to a giddy laughter, the unhappy Earl of Grantham took a stand and announced, "I'll take George out with me." He neared Matthew and the oblivious baby, who was still entranced in the contours of his grandmother's face. "That's enough," reinforced Robert, once he'd come within centimetres from Matthew and the baby.

Matthew refused to let his father-in-law take George away. "No," he stated simply, now securing the child away from the body and into his arms.

Robert cocked his head in disbelief. "Please don't argue with me, Matthew, when I think it best -"

"And I know it best that my son be here!" interjected the other, his grief-stricken predispositions kicking in. Mary moved to calm her husband. "Matthew -"

"Let my baby have his last moments with Mother," beseeched George's father, now sobbing at the sight of Robert's hands half-way round his little boy's waist. Matthew watched in utter astonishment as his father-in-law took the child away from him, and this was when George started to bawl. Mary cringed at the cacophony of emotions: the baby's primary cheeriness at the sight of his life-robbed grandmother; the wholly-felt sorrow for all that had transpired; the piercing screams of her now-discontented son.

Cora reasoned with Robert as her husband made his way out, the Earl's wailing grandson in his gruff arms. "You're making Matthew have to deal with another loss, Robert," she assured him firmly. But their voices diminished as they grew farther away from the bedroom; and, once again, the doctor found himself in the presence of Matthew and Mary, and the breathless Isobel Crawley.

Matthew took a seat in the wicker chair underneath the sunshine-filled window. Almost as instantly as he'd settled into the chair, he cried "What have I done?"

They all basked in scorching silence for the proceeding minutes, Clarkson keeping his gaze upon the dead woman on the bed; and Mary bravely comforting Matthew in his internal turmoil, holding him tightly in her embrace whilst George sobbed down the hallway.


	4. Three

Matthew's absence from the abbey cast a gloom upon the place, rendering every movement, every sound, and every one in the house quieter than normal.

However, to Mary's surprise, the young man had called his wife - on the very night that shared its renown with Isobel Crawley's death - to announce his certain arrival at Downton by eleven o'clock. Usually Mary would not decide to be vigilant, but circumstances provided reason for an alteration in her customs. She not only remained awake for her husband to return; Mary had their son in her arms, rocking the much-alert child whilst cooing to him. After all, he was her temporary medium for consolation: and Mary believed that Matthew would not be this to her - at least, not for some time.

And yet, despite the grief-stricken nature of Matthew Crawley, he entered his bedroom with a warm smile directed at his wife. "Mary," he breathed, drawing closer to her and George. The woman shoved her amazement away as she lifted herself and the baby up from the side of the bed. Her movements were gradual, and before she could believe her senses the comforting lips of her beloved Matthew rested against her forehead. "I've missed you," the man whispered.

His sincerity almost broke her; it was painful enough that he'd just lost his dear mother, and all about which Mary could think was the fact that her husband was being brave - for her. Inhaling deeply before responding, the woman gently pushed his unkempt hair away from his eyes. "It's all right to cry...in front of me. I do not want you to hold your emotions back..."

Matthew would not stare his wife directly in the eyes at first; his gaze was locked upon the tiny figure in his wife's arms. As his fingers traced across the baby's fleshy lips, Mary freed her right arm and latched onto his working hand. It was at that moment that Matthew looked up.

Spoke Mary: "I am not... There is no reason to conceal it from me, my darling."

The father withdrew his hand from the child in her arms. "I know. There is nothing that can bring me to tears right now... I have shed all of them for today." He randomly reached into his pocket to collect what appeared to Mary to be a piece of glass; she soon realised the relevance of the fragmented piece. "Mother died because of this," announced Matthew solemnly.

The glass remnant glared at Mary, mainly due to its location relative to the shining light from the fireplace. Her stunned throat prevented the minutest sound from vibrating out of her mouth, but Matthew inferred that she would wonder from what the deathly piece had derived.

"My father had his portrait taken once he'd entered his profession," explained the voice gradually. "Mother had wanted to frame it immediately, but years transpired...and he wasn't alive by the time she'd remembered it." Matthew carefully replaced the glass into his pocket. "I hate to think that the very frame that had preserved my father's memory... Well, Mother was probably unaware that it had fallen when she wasn't around. But...but it had, and Clarkson thinks she slipped and fell directly onto the broken glass..." He held a hand to his trembling lips, and right when he'd begun to turn courteously away from Mary, the woman stopped him with a hand to his arm. Matthew turned.

Seconds passed. Husband and wife merely stood before one another, both contemplating how to act next. Finally the young mother laid George on top of the bedcovers; the baby's eyelids had already begun to droop, and after moments of waiting upon the little chap to fall asleep, he'd yawned and contently shut his eyes. Mary reverted to look at Matthew.

"You shouldn't have waited for me," admonished he.

"I can wait for my husband. He deserves that." The woman took her husband's hands into her own, caressing them with modest intimacy. He stared down at this. "Today I have been far too indulgent in the privileges of mourning. I shouldn't have done, especially since you and George -"

"You cannot apologise for grieving, Matthew," assured Mary sternly but softly. Pursing her lips was the only means by which she could maintain her speech; Isobel was not for a single moment out of her thoughts. "We grieve only because the people who died loved us, and we them. There is no guilty part in remembering those we loved."

"But I can't afford to let you and our child down at such a time -"

"Matthew," persisted she, "you are _entitled_ to mourn your dear mother! I couldn't bear to watch you conceal all that necessary emotion, because it would pain me to think you in agony over retaining composure just for me!" She quickly cocked her head toward the bed, but to Mary's good fortune the baby had not detected her elevated tone. "I am being very harsh on such an occasion; forgive me," she apologised.

"No, I understand," returned the other. Matthew's eyes were far darker than they'd been upon his entrance into their bedroom: something for which Mary felt completely responsible. And so she bowed her head gravely, let go of his cold hands, and tended to her son.

Of course Mary's actions satisfied Matthew to no degree. "My darling, I am stronger than you think. Yes, I admit that earlier I needed comfort and support, but I feel better now, and..." He could not conclude his thought; no, Matthew did not feel better, but his attempt to act the bold warrior in Mary's sight had dominated the latter speech. Indeed, the young man soon experienced the effects of feigned strength within his very chest, as the oxygen inhabiting his lungs grew tight and almost suffocating.

Mary had meanwhile picked the baby up from the bed, only to place little George back onto it. The child slept still, albeit he'd come close to waking from his slumber.

In trepidation did Matthew dare to utter more words. "Sorry... I have lied to myself, thinking I could handle...handle all this..." Tears now streamed down the man's blanched cheeks, and his features soon transformed so oppositely to that which one would imagine a gentle, warm fire would've done to an icy-cold man.

Immediately did Mary submit to her husband's side, embracing him whilst he sobbed the consequences of his earlier façade - one that had cost him far more than a lie to himself. Matthew had not allowed himself to grieve throughout the rather traumatic events of the afternoon: Isobel's corpse had departed through the familiar doorway of Crawley House, and yet Matthew had treated the moment with distance. He'd thought nothing of the significance of the actual moment, but had instead dwelt upon the scent of the frosty winter air and the sounds of the conflicting winds. His heart had been in the trenches, welcoming just another wretched day of seeing off the very bodies of colleagues about whom he must never think for too long.

Once he'd revealed all this to his wife, Mary took a step backward to absorb her husband's pain. "I cannot know," she commenced, "why this has happened...so soon. One day this past week, I thought... I thought how _lovely_ it would've been to have your mother over for luncheon. We could have invited her early, so she'd have time to visit George...perhaps to play with him..."

Matthew grasped his precious wife's face and pressed his forehead to hers. "Oh, Mary," he sighed. "I can't face it. I just cannot..."

She knew his pain; Sybil's death had hit her family with such a magnitude that Mary had felt almost without a mother, since Cora had resorted to a lowlier state of morale. "I know, my darling," she whispered yet, closing her eyes whilst her face still pressed against Matthew's own. "But you are not alone. I promise you that...and we will brave this storm - together - because your mother was never one to give up."

This brought a bitter-sweet smile across Matthew's scathed lips (they had undergone multiple tears and bleedings throughout the winter day). He tried to compile the energy to speak, but Mary noticed his inability and shook her head. "No," she assured him, "you don't need to talk... Let me do that for now, and when you are ready, you shall say what you must. But let me brave the storm _for_ you...at least, for this moment..."

She lifted his chin and gracefully grazed his lips. Matthew trembled at her touch, but he allowed himself the fulness of the sensation. He let Mary guide him to the confines of their bed, where the tired young man slept soundly for ten straight hours -

And perhaps his mind still wept for the loss of his mother, but soundly did he rest that night.


	5. Four

"But what do you want me to do? I cannot afford his absence in the business for much longer."

"Papa, he's lost his mother! Can't it wait another two weeks?"

The funeral of Isobel Crawley had transpired a week since, and Robert was beginning to get rather anxious about estate matters. "I grieve with him, Mary; we _all_ feel this loss. To no greater degree than Matthew, of course -"

Mary's eyes had begun to accumulate thick tears from the argument. "That's all very well. And so his grief is not going to subside before ours! Matthew won't be productive in whatever meetings you hold, Papa."

"Nevertheless, he should participate," urged the Earl of Grantham. They were alone in the library, and so he momentarily closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. "I've grown to depend on his contributions," confessed he. Robert reopened his eyes to find his daughter weeping silently in his midst. "Mary," he whispered, drawing near her to take her in his embrace. She wholeheartedly refused.

"I cannot," began she, "allow myself to fall any more defenceless... For my husband's sake -"

"Give in now, Mary," her father permitted softly. His features had lessened in intensity, and the blueness of his eyes spoke in sympathy to her conflicted nature. It was not long after Mary had pursed her lips that she broke entirely, accepting for once her liberty to sob uncontrollably whilst out of Matthew's sight.

Robert soothed her with his understanding: "I know, my darling girl... You want to be strong for him, but such does not come easily. If I -" he chocked on his words, for she had affected him so profusely with her sorrow that he had begun to feel her position. "If we were to lose Cora," he continued in short intervals, "I would imagine...Matthew would feel the same devastation and grief... But even he would find it difficult to be strong for you, my dear."

Mary gazed into her father's knowledgeable eyes - she hardly had a thing against him at this moment, since he had so willingly taken her into the confines of his comfort - and she suddenly realised how fortunate she was to have both of her parents in good health. Finally she admitted, "I've forgotten how lucky I am. There are far too many like me who have lost much more than I've done..."

"But you cannot think nothing of this," reminded the man. "Therefore, _if_ - for your husband's sake - you wish to let him have time off from estate matters...I will permit it."

"Thank you, Papa," praised Mary; she took the hands he offered to her and gingerly squeezed them. "It will only be a matter of time," she assured her father, knowing too well how imperative it was that Downton have its entire crew working on its preservation and production. Robert nodded and returned a gentle pressure with his hands, and then he released himself for the opportunity to leave the room. Mary bowed her head and aimlessly observed the scenery outside the windows.

Matthew was outside. Alone.

...

"How are you?"

"I'd prefer not to talk about me."

At this remark, Mary closed her eyes in the utmost discouragement. She tried to keep the abnormally slow pace that her husband had set, but her feet wanted progression: she wanted him to change his tune. "I've not come to merely talk about _you,"_ she replied, the air of her voice exceeding its anticipated level of aggression. Mary had not intended to come out into the blistering winds of the winter to put yet another damper on Matthew's day. _It's bad enough that I'm interrupting his walk - one which he probably would have preferred to take without me._

The more Mary thought internally, the worse their silence became. Matthew stopped - which was not much of an alteration in their already _larghetto_ speed. "I want you to know something, Mary," he declared.

Much to his surprise, Mary smiled warmly at him. "I know what it is. You want me to let you alone at this time. I completely understand," continued she, "since there is nothing I can do to brighten the following months - or years, for that matter -"

"Mary, you're wrong." The harshness of the man's tone of voice had emanated with vigour and meaning, and so Mary could not breathe for the following several seconds. The frosty winds picked up around them, and for the first time in that afternoon Mary realised how hard the snow had become. _Has it really been wintertime for weeks? The season, I thought, has only just started!_

"I don't like to sound rude with you, but I must explain," Matthew persisted at a faster rate than before. During his pause, he turned his head round to examine the white-blanketed landscape before them. Mary took advantage of his halted speech:

"What is it, then? But am I not hindering you from pondering this time, Matthew? If I am, please tell me." Mary moved a strand of exposed hair away from her chilling face. To her foul fortune, she had not grabbed a coat on her way out of the abbey; Matthew noticed her trouble and began to remove his own coat to cover her. "No," rejected the woman. Her husband did not listen.

"You are not even the clumsiest root of my troubles, my darling, which is why I must confess... Since Mother's death-day, I have thought about rebuilding our life...perhaps in America, or somewhere far enough away from Downton. You see, I'm not..._handling_ this all very well."

He had not finished, but the now-cloaked Mary Crawley imparted her answer to his musings: "It will only be a matter of time, my darling...you'll see. There is no need -"

"But there is _every_ need!" He had burst into a passionate mood, which struck Mary's every nerve. Cried Matthew: "Nothing will ever be the same, and I do not intend to send my wife and child into endless grief for my misery!" He stopped, jerked his head away from her, and stood frozen for a moment. Mary's chest was heaving; it was not usual for Matthew to break out into a rampage, though she reminded herself of the circumstances. "I'm sorry," he whispered after yet another several seconds of stillness between them. Wiping his cold, wet eyes - whilst wincing at the pain it brought him to touch such a region on his face - the man returned completely to Mary. He nodded to her, a mere reassurance that he'd meant his apology.

"Come back inside with me," beckoned Mary, her aim to take their important conversation and suffering bodies inside to the warmth of the abbey. "You cannot tolerate this weather without a coat." This was a bitter-sweet assertion, as Matthew - having acted like a pure gentleman - had lent her his only means of protection from the uncomfortable temperature outside. She laid upon his arm her own gloved hand, whereupon he accepted it reluctantly and went back with his wife into their home.

But whilst they were walking he confessed in disappointment, "It doesn't feel as if we're going home."


	6. Five

They ate luncheon together that afternoon. The windows were half-concealed, half-exposed due to the arrangement of the draperies; thus inspiring a contemplative mood inside the motherless Matthew Crawley.

His eyes never left his plate; even when Mary glanced at him from her adjacent seat, he would avert his gaze from the warm - and surprisingly comforting - meal. The harsh winds from the morning had maintained their intensity, howling in intervals with medium-pitches that disturbed members of the family.

The Dowager Countess was present, albeit grief-stricken in a way that none else understood. Isobel had offered a unique sort of companionship to her; for the stubbornly thoughtful woman to be gone was a disastrous development for Violet. And she, too, would not raise her voice to spark conversation.

Of course, the wintry afternoon was none about which to celebrate, and so the entirety of the congregation - whose attire across the table only emanated darkness and dwelling - remained in a silent pool of thought.

It was after Carson had approached Matthew for another glass of wine that the man found the confidence to use his vocal chords; without looking up at his loving family, he declared with a lonely air, "I have decided to take Mary and George to America."

Cora, who had just begun to place food into her mouth, froze upon this announcement. Fork still in hand, she exclaimed, "Why on earth are you leaving?"

"They are not leaving," came the Earl's deep voice; he would not even accept Matthew's statement to be an honest one. "My dear chap, time will alter your musings on the matter. I suggest you and Mary go away to London for a week -"

Matthew raised both his head and his voice at Robert. "I am set on my decision. With Mother gone, I feel no purpose here."

"But surely -"

"Papa," admonished Mary, "do allow him time to express himself." She had inched her hand underneath the table to conjoin with that of her husband; but when he felt her flesh on his, Matthew shifted away from her in his chair. This action caused Mary a spurt of internal grief. _Oh, why does he pretend to be someone who clearly is not him?_ she wondered.

His former move having affected him with raw emotion, Matthew experienced a wetness in his eyes. Continuing bravely, he confessed to the rest of his family - Edith, Tom, Cora, Violet, Robert - "I find no happiness here. Perhaps I only ever...ever loved Downton because of Mother, but I - it would not be fair to Mary and my child -"

"It would not be fair if you shipped yourselves off to a foreign land!" persisted Robert in heated anger. He had forgotten the chapter of life in which they had landed, and this disregard for the present circumstances put Matthew's feelings out of line. He violently jerked his body up from the dining-room chair.

Robert and Tom arose too, merely because they would have options if the man had the sudden whim to harm the women at the table. Particularly they had in mind Mary as a potential victim; for she had grabbed his hand after he'd risen from the table, and would presently not let go.

In a strict, low voice, the Earl of Grantham projected his rules: "There is to be no more of this whilst the women are present. But let me make one thing clear -" he watched as Matthew's jaw tensed up, whereupon Robert lifted his head and shoulders - "My grandson will not leave this country. Is that quite clear?"

Tom was beside himself with astonishment. _Is this how Robert will react when I express my own desire to take Sybbie with me to America?_

Placed at the table exactly opposite from Mary, Edith eyed her sister with a fearful countenance. Mary did not notice it, as her hand still clutched the arm of her fuming husband._ "What?"_ Matthew questioned Robert. "Your grandson is _my_ son, over whom I have the ultimate authority!"

The tone of voice had been incredulous and rough, but the Earl of Grantham shook his head. "We are finished with this conversation once you agree to my provisions, and for God's sake, man, _do!"_

"Please let this go for now, Robert," beseeched his wife, whose weariness from the conflict at the table had ruined her appetite. The Dowager Countess also found reason to stop her son:

"Why can't we all have a peaceful meal together? What is there to fight about...when we've lost the only woman who ever showed us how to be delightful and heartfelt?" She hadn't realised what she'd uttered until all stared at her from their positions round the table. Edith in particular could not prevent a curve in her lips from coming across her face. "Granny is right," she confirmed. "We mustn't continue in this way...for Isobel's sake."

The name had taken Isobel's son off-guard: Matthew, still scarred from all the harshness in which he'd participated at the table, could not think rationally at the mention of his mother. He felt once more the pangs of the morning on which he had entered the blinding, sunny atmosphere of his mother's last breaths. Turning back to face Robert - who had begun to take his seat, although Tom remained standing - Matthew hoarsely criticised his father-in-law: "How dare you believe that I could leave my child here. I have never thought to abandon one of my own, but I failed at that when Mother died... I did not help her; I simply let her struggle and die -"

"Enough!" bellowed the Earl; he burst out of his seat and stepped a foot closer to Matthew. "If you do not put an end to this talk, I will see to it that you remain at Crawley House for the day!"

Mary banged her elbow upon rising from her own chair. "Papa," cried she, "Matthew's not trying to be unreasonable! He is lost in this dreadful time. He cannot listen to someone who tries to keep his child from him!"

"I never thought he would leave George!" countered the Earl. His sweaty brow contrasted greatly with the nature of those who were seated and motionless at the table. They all shivered at the temperature and at the shouting; whilst he sweated profusely. "If you'll excuse me," he announced - so suddenly, in fact, that Matthew hadn't a word for his father-in-law whilst Robert stormed off through the doorway. "Oh," Cora sighed. Her attempt to act as if she were not moved by the present circumstances did not convince anyone, and Mary took it upon herself to approach her mother for comfort.

"Mary, please," she argued, holding her hand out in front of her empathetic daughter. Edith had meanwhile joined Violet to console the older woman.

Matthew's hands were pressed against his face, covering his lost blue eyes in the shadow of his own misery. On a whim Mary attempted, "My darling, perhaps we _should_ go to London for a few days -"

"No, Mary." Her husband smiled at her in resolute sadness. Tom interfered:

"Perhaps if we discussed matters in the drawing-room, the ladies might find it easier to breathe." He gave Matthew a serious but loving gesture for them to continue elsewhere. When no one disagreed, Tom aided Carson (who had thus far remained at the far side of the buffet, silent and politely inattentive) with helping the Dowager and Cora out of their seats. Mary claimed Matthew's arm whilst the Irishman led the group out of the dining-room.

**To Be Continued**


End file.
